


the second time as farce

by seinmit



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bad Guys Made Them Do It, Beating with Closed Fists, Blood, Bottom Steve Rogers, Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Face Slapping, Forced Orgasm, Humiliation, Knifeplay, M/M, Masochist Victim, Mind Control, Past Relationship(s), S&M, Suicide Imagery, Top Bucky Barnes, Unaffected Rapist, Villain Monologuing, forced blowjob
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-14
Updated: 2019-12-14
Packaged: 2021-02-25 22:41:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,264
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21713164
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seinmit/pseuds/seinmit
Summary: Steve wanted Bucky to remember him. When he did, it made things much worse.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Comments: 6
Kudos: 82
Collections: Consent Issues Exchange 2019





	the second time as farce

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ficwriter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ficwriter/gifts).



> Check out the endnotes for detailed, spoilery warnings.
> 
> Thank you, ba_lailah for reading this over and doing great work sorting out pronouns, blocking, and a dozen other ways I was unclear. Thanks to O. for help with the title/summary.

_Hegel remarks somewhere that all great world-historic facts and personages appear, so to speak, twice. He forgot to add: the first time as tragedy, the second time as farce.... Men make their own history, but they do not make it as they please; they do not make it under self-selected circumstances, but under circumstances existing already, given and transmitted from the past._ \- Karl Marx, from "The Eighteenth Brumaire of Louis Bonaparte"

Steve was strong enough to hold the helicopter, but the concrete wasn't. It crumbled and off Bucky went—it was all Steve could do to hang on, dropping the thick metal bar while he was still close enough to hear the splash as it hit the water. He was good at holding on, at this point, and he held right on as they flew over Berlin. Steve didn't know where they were going, but Bucky clearly did. 

It was cold, and the wind whipped right through Steve's thin cotton t-shirt. But it wasn't the coldest he'd been, and he wasn't letting go for anything. He considered trying to climb up and commandeer the aircraft, but he didn't want to prompt Bucky into any aggressive maneuvers. Instead, he shifted so he could cling to the runner with both arms and his legs, settling in. 

They flew for approximately two hours. At first, Steve's thoughts were racing through what would happen when they landed, how he would knock Bucky back out of this—but before long, he didn't think of anything.

It was almost startling when the forward trajectory ceased and they started descending, like he half-expected to be flying forever. Steve held on until they were about ten meters from the ground, then leaping off and coming up in a roll. 

He waited, shifting his weight to the balls of his feet, eyes locked on Bucky calmly landing the helicopter. The blades whipped up leaves in the small clearing, swirling around them. There was a whine as the machine powered down. 

Bucky got out and looked at Steve, eyes blank. His stance was settled—flat-footed, relaxed. Something near enough to parade rest. He didn't say anything. For a long time, Steve didn't either—he didn't have any words. 

"Bucky?" 

No response. But there wasn't any aggression, either. Just a punishing quiet, the clicks of a cooling engine and the startled sounds of nature readjusting after a noisy disturbance. 

In the absence of any other ideas, Steve let himself look his fill. Bucky didn't look much like he remembered. He was built different, thickly muscled—Steve knew that the several layers of t-shirts weren't responsible for that size, and it was incredible that he looked even more physically intimidating than he had in D.C. 

Mostly more intimidating—Steve's eyes were drawn to the barest softness under Bucky's chin. It wasn't much—he was far more muscle than fat, if fat could even really accumulate on their serumed bodies. But he'd never seen anything like it on Bucky, not once in their long lives.

It was that which had him walking toward Bucky, with the caution he'd once used on spitting alley-cats. It was unnecessary. Bucky didn't move. 

"Bucky," he said again. "Jesus, Bucky. It's me. It's Steve." 

Still no answer or movement, and Steve wasn't more than three feet away at this point. 

"Remember? You read about me in the museum." 

Steve thought he saw a flicker in Bucky's eyes at that, but it was likely wishful thinking. There was no response he could trust as more than his fevered imagination. 

This close, he could smell Bucky. He hadn't washed in a while, clearly, and even his sweat smelled different than it used to. There weren't any notes of his old cologne or cigarettes. He remembered, in the war, that Bucky always used to smell like gunpowder and taste like the orange-flavored drink that was his favorite in the K-ration. He'd trade anything but cigarettes for that stuff. But now, mostly, Bucky smelled like the hot metal of his arm slowly cooling down. 

Steve took another cautious step forward and reached out, a strange compulsion to check for life. He flattened his hand on Bucky's chest, feeling the curve of his pec, and it was only this that got a response—a tiny, almost imperceptible flinch. Steve jerked back as if Bucky burned (and he did—he was warm, alive, and from this close, Steve thought he could feel the tiny movements of air disturbed by Bucky's breathing).

"Okay," Steve said to break the unnatural silence. Used to be Bucky never stopped talking. Things changed. 

He didn't feel at all finished with the sight of Bucky, but he moved a little farther away and sat on an uneven boulder at the edge of the clearing. He couldn't stop watching Bucky, fruitlessly waiting for movement. Steve should do something, but he didn't have any comms on him and he had a deadly certainty that if he looked away, Bucky would vanish once again. He'd know what to do, soon enough. He'd figure it out. 

It had been a long time since he'd had a moment of such sustained quiet. 

The noises of the forest around them evened out into normalcy. His ears tuned themselves to the surroundings, and he found himself, before long, half-listening for the sound of German boots in the underbrush. 

He yanked his attention to the present. Different German forest, different possible pursuers. This time, more than likely, anyone coming would help him figure out what to do. He thought Bucky had gotten better. And yet, here they were. Maybe there wasn't anything there—

He mentally shied away from that and it spurred him into action. 

"What the hell do you think you were doing down there?" Steve said, standing back up. His voice was angry and hard—a Captain America kinda anger. He wanted to get up into Bucky's face, use his size to intimidate him in a way he couldn't ever have done before. Maybe it'd be reassuring for it not to work, even if it was because of Bucky's unnerving blankness this time. 

"Bucky, answer me," he said. It was a command. It was. It wasn't a plea. "Bucky." 

"Ah," another voice said. "I wasn't expecting you." 

Steve turned on his heel, heart rate skyrocketing. A man emerged from the trees—small, unintimidating, and wearing nondescript clothes. It was the psychiatrist—or whoever. Steve surged toward him, but before he could do anything, the other man barked out Russian. Steve paused, waiting for Bucky to hit him like a hammer, but nothing happened. 

When he looked back, Bucky was holding a gun to his own head. Steve felt like he had been dropped back into an Arctic ocean. 

"You have me at many physical disadvantages," the man said. "But I have this, so I might as well use it, hmm?" 

"Who are you?" Steve said. "What did you do to him?"

The man flicked his fingers in a gesture of dismissal and ignored the question. He was looking at Steve consideringly. 

"Plans change," he said. "I didn't expect you here at all." 

"I'm a stubborn son of a bitch," Steve said, his voice in a growl. He took a step toward the false doctor, but a quick word in Russian and the sound of a safety being flicked off stopped him dead. 

"I don't actually need him alive to do my work," the man said, mildly. "I just need your attachment and anger. I think you'll give me anger nicely if I have him blow his own brains out in front of you, don't you?" 

He felt rage building up in his chest, hot and heavy like a physical weight. His muscles twitched, tensed enough that he could feel the painful ache of his body trying to pull itself apart. 

"On your knees, Captain America," he said. 

Steve didn't budge. He backed up a step, so he could keep both Bucky and the stranger in view.

The man rolled his eyes. "I guess we should do this in English, for effect. _Soldat_ , take out your knife with the hand not holding the gun and gouge out your eye." 

Steve dropped, knees slamming against dirt, and the man laughed. 

“Nevermind, _soldat_. Order retracted. Keep the knife out." 

Bucky's combat knife was gleaming in his left hand—an unbroken line of metal, from wrist to the tip. Steve imagined that shine going all the way up, meeting flesh with gory scars that he only knew from pictures. 

"Now I want you to crawl," the man said. "I want you to crawl, on your hands and knees, Captain America. I want you to go to him and kneel at his feet." 

Steve's breath shuddered in his chest. He focused on the last part of the command, even as he felt leaves slimy and wet underneath his palms. He would always go to Bucky if he could. And tactically, if he got closer—maybe he could snap Bucky out of it. Maybe he could do something. He crawled, like he was told to crawl, and he stopped only when he was at Bucky's feet. 

He looked up, because he couldn't not. This close, he could see the depression of skin around the barrel of Bucky's gun, pressure paling skin as it scattered blood. The next order very well might be to turn that gun on Steve. He was ready. He hoped Bucky wouldn’t remember it.

"Reach up and unbuckle his pants," the man said. 

Steve couldn't help himself; he turned away from Bucky and stared, incredulous. 

The man raised his eyebrows and smiled, a disconcerting lightness to it. 

"I'm trying to humiliate you, Captain. I have an easy tool right here to do that," he said as if it should be obvious.

That explanation made things easier in a peculiar way. Steve had sucked Bucky's cock before—it used to be one of his very favorite things to do. If this was the grand plan that this man had to humiliate him, he was barking up the wrong tree entirely. He didn't reveal that, not like this and not to him, but it made his hands steady as he gently did what he was told. 

"Is this okay?" he said softly, his lips barely moving. Bucky was looking down at him with an even, blank look. There was something that might have been confusion in the subtle tilt of his eyebrows, but that was all the response Steve had to go on. 

"I'm sorry," he said. This was not what he imagined. 

"I wouldn't spare much concern for him, Captain," the man said. "However wet you get him is all the lubrication that you're going to get."

Steve could feel his back go stiff, and he forced himself loose again—he didn't want to give the doctor the satisfaction of seeing any kind of response. He got Bucky's dick out. It was soft, foreskin wrinkled around the head, and even in this context, Steve couldn't help a swell of tenderness in his chest. 

Steve closed his eyes and took Bucky in his mouth. He heard the way Bucky's breath skipped a beat, and now, this close and intimate, he finally smelled something familiar. Bucky tasted different, but it still made Steve's mouth water—his nose was filled with clean sweat, on top of fear and too many days without soap. With the smell of firs and birch around them, the damp smoky scent of leaves under his feet, they could be back in the war, making time where there wasn't any time to be had. 

Bucky had never been this quiet, though. Even when they'd had their entire lives riding on secrecy, he could barely help running his mouth, whispering filthy endearments to Steve like he'd die if he didn't speak. 

Steve sucked harder, feeling Bucky's dick twitch and start to swell in his mouth. Maybe he could coax a reaction out of him, even in this circumstance. 

At the first taste of bitter pre-come, Steve felt his own dick respond, growing heavier between his legs even if it wasn't swelling yet. The sensation sent heat and horror twisting through him simultaneously, a sick feeling of being mastered warring with the knowledge that he'd be wanting something like this anyway. 

He pushed himself harder, taking Bucky all the way down his throat, feeling liquid leak from the corner of his eyes and wanting a physiological excuse. 

"You're good at this, Captain," he heard, behind him. "I'm starting to think this isn't a very good punishment."

That made him strangely triumphant and he grazed his teeth, ever so slightly, just below Bucky's glans—it was something that always got him going, and even now it got a gasp out of Bucky. 

Bucky said something in Russian to the man, on the edge of breathless. 

There was a heavy pause, and he replied in the same language. 

"I said, is this man my asset, sir?" Bucky said, his voice thick. 

"Why would you think that, _soldat_?" the man said. 

"I remember hurting him," Bucky said. Steve's eyes snapped open, looking up to Bucky's face. He had a strange, distant look, like he was grasping for a dream slipping out of his fingers. Steve sucked harder, wondering if the familiarity of this was enough to knock something loose, bring Bucky back to himself, and back to Steve. 

Bucky's hips jerked, driving his cock down Steve's throat, and the metal hand holding the knife landed heavily on Steve's head, the sheath knocking his skull. 

"How did you hurt him?" 

"I beat him," Bucky said. "With my hands and other things. He—he liked it."

He sounded confused and Steve felt ice building in his stomach, cold sweat pricking on the back of his neck—somehow, this was worse than Bucky shooting him, him telling this asshole that. Bucky remembered the acts, but without the context that would let him know that Steve would honestly rather die than let anyone else learn the details of them. 

“What else, _soldat_?” Gleeful, now. 

"He'd take my fist," Bucky said. "And sometimes we'd—"

He raised the knife off of Steve's head and looked at it, as if it had secrets. It was a sleek, matte black tactical knife—nothing like the well-loved pocket knife that had once belonged to Bucky's da that they'd used back home. 

Steve bit down, not hard enough to seriously hurt Bucky but hopefully sufficient to get him to _stop talking_. Bucky's whole body jerked, and he slapped Steve with his flesh hand, seemingly by reflex, with enough force to send him sprawling back into the dirt. 

Steve spat, suddenly unable to bear the way the taste of sex and the throbbing pain of his cheekbone combined, sinking into his guts and making him _burn_. Bucky was standing above him, dark eyes glittering, and his face was so close to the persona they'd adopt in play. It was a strange sight, paired with the gun still held fixed to his own head, and Steve focused on that strangeness so he wouldn't totally embarrass himself. 

"Should I punish him, sir?" Bucky asked. 

"Yes," the man said. "Hurt him as much as you can and still make him orgasm. Sounds like that's considerably more pain than I was expecting. Ensure that you are in a position to kill yourself if it ever seems like he's going to escape or retaliate. That will be your first response."

"Yes, sir," Bucky said. There was no recognition in him about the strangeness of that order. That made Steve feel sicker than anything had yet. 

Bucky looked down at him, considering. Steve wiped spit off of his face and met Bucky's eyes full on, begging for some more recognition—a recognition that hit the heart and not just the mind, something that would prevent Bucky from doing this. 

Instead, all that eye contact meant was that they were looking at each other when Bucky kicked him. The heavy boot slammed into his chest, knocking the breath out of him. He was choking, trying to get in air, and the strange familiarity of that feeling somehow got him hotter—like it was a lifetime ago, and they were kids playing at stuff that nobody but them would understand. 

Bucky kicked him again when he was curled up like a pill-bug, and Steve just took it. Even when the muscles controlling his lungs relaxed enough to let him breathe, he stayed curled up. 

There was a pause—a moment of uncertainty. Steve risked a glance back up to Bucky. He was hesitating, looming over Steve. Gun in his hand, but a little looser. Steve shifted, considering grabbing for him and hauling him down—but Bucky noticed it in an instant, pushed the metal firmer against his own skull. 

"My reflexes are very fast," he said, calm. "I could pull this trigger before you took the gun away, even if it wasn't already this close." 

Steve knew it was true. 

"You don't have to, though—Buck. Sweetheart, there's two of us. We could take the helicopter and just go, okay? We don't have to do this," he said. He found himself begging. Something about the familiarity of getting hurt by Bucky, with his dick hanging out and shining from Steve's spit—it felt natural to beg, put the needy ache in his voice that Bucky always managed to draw out of him. 

Bucky's eyes narrowed and flicked back up to the man. 

"Should I punish him for that, too?" Bucky asked. Steve's breath hiccupped in something that was already close to a sob but not far from a laugh. 

"I like hearing his hopelessness," the man said. "We wouldn't want to discourage it. You have your main orders, though."

That made Steve clench his jaw, tight enough that pain radiated to his temples. He braced himself. 

"Make him hurt," Bucky said. "Make him like it." 

God help him, those words in that voice got Steve harder. He curled up tighter, closing his eyes. He didn't want this to happen, but there was part of him that was hungry for any touch that Bucky deigned to give him. 

Steve wasn't surprised when Bucky leaned down and grabbed him by his hair, knife hilt digging into his skull hard enough to hurt. He picked Steve up and moved him, throwing him down on his front. Steve's scalp burned, and when Bucky released him, Steve saw thin blond strands of his own hair stuck in the joints of Bucky's hand.

Then Bucky sat on Steve's back, straddling his hips. Steve could feel Bucky's hard cock pressing against his ass, and he wanted both to push into it and to run away. It was hard not to remember the last time they'd played like this—no audience, no fanfare, just them. Trying to make something real in the disconcerting vortex of war. 

He didn't want to remember it, though. He couldn't let that become this—it had been different, no matter what Bucky's memories were telling him. 

He felt the thin cold blade of Bucky's knife against his skin, flat side down, as Bucky slipped it under his shirt. He used it to rip a line right down the thin cotton and nudged the scraps off of him, so that his bare skin was revealed. 

The air of the forest was cool enough that Steve felt himself shiver, feeling entirely on display. The shiver was chased away by more pain, as Bucky pressed his hips down hard against Steve's ass and punched him with his metal fist, slamming into his side. The angle wasn't good, and there was no way that Bucky was using his full strength, but it still fucking _hurt_. He followed the punch with his knife, tracing a thin line up the big muscle of Steve's back, starting from the point of contact where a bruise was forming from his fist and ending right under the back of Steve’s neck—Bucky used light pressure, but Steve could feel his skin splitting even under just the weight of the blade, cold and shocking. 

The smell of his blood was heavy in the air, almost immediately. Bucky leaned down—Steve could feel his weight shifting—but the soft touch of his tongue was enough that Steve actually moaned. 

This made the man laugh.

"Maybe you're doing too well, _soldat_ ," he said. "This is supposed to be a punishment." 

"For what? Jesus," Steve said, voice hoarse. "Hasn't HYDRA done enough to the both of us?" 

The man crouched down in front of Steve. He said something in Russian—in response, Bucky, took a handful of Steve's hair and jerked his head up. It wasn't gentle, and Steve could feel the ache in his spine and neck. 

Their eyes met. The man's eyes were a soft brown, almost kind—fine wrinkles around the edges, like he'd done a lot of smiling. 

"I've spent so long watching you," he said, his voice soft, almost tender. "Looking for imperfections. Only now, I see that there's a little bit of green in your eyes." 

Bucky's hand in Steve's hair clenched and then loosened just as fast. The man spat and Steve couldn't help but flinch when the warm liquid hit his cheek, slowly dripping down. 

"I'm not HYDRA," he said. "My name is Helmut Zemo. I was a Sokovian, but now, nobody is. You thought you lost everything? Not yet. I have to live with the memory of my wife and child, dead in front of me. You'll get something like that, soon enough. But I want you to really feel how much you've lost first." 

The hate in his eyes was enough that Steve sealed his own shut. 

"I don't blame you for not being able to face what you've done," Zemo said, from a distance. He must have stood up. "I do blame you for everything else. Rape him, soldier."

Bucky shifted above Steve, dropping his head so his forehead slammed into the ground. Steve dug his face into the dirt, trying to overwhelm the scents of sex and blood and Bucky with soil. 

He didn't help when Bucky pushed down his pants, but he didn't need to. He heard Bucky spit on his hand and the slick sound as he worked his cock, once, twice. He felt, like fire, the relentless push of Bucky's cock into his body. 

It hurt—he hadn't got any stretching, his body hadn't taken anything like this in decades. It was too much. It was Bucky, though, and he heard the tiny grunt Bucky made when he bottomed out. 

A sharp spike of pain as something tore, and the smell of the blood got stronger. Bucky fucked up into him, brutal and hard, with no tenderness in him—but that wasn't so different than the good days, the old days, and it was still him. And Steve liked the pain, enough that after a few moments, warmth built liquid in his gut and his treacherous cock was hard enough that he was twitching against the ground, trying not to move his hips. 

Bucky, chasing some half-known memory, kept pinching Steve's sides with his metal hand, harsh. He left burning behind him with every touch. Steve felt like his skin might come off—it hurt, but the pain seeped into his muscles from the skin, just getting him hotter. 

"I told you to make him like it," Zemo said. "Check." 

Bucky hauled his hips up off the ground enough that his metal hand could go underneath and grip Steve's cock, none too gently. 

"He's hard," Bucky said. 

"Good. Touch him. Do you remember him?" 

"Flashes," Bucky said, starting to jerk Steve off in rough, steady time to his thrusts. 

"Do you love him?" 

There was a long silence. Bucky fucked up into him even harder, sending them both forward on the dirt. 

"Soldier," Zemo said, a clear command. 

"I don't know what that means," Bucky said, finally, and that hit Steve hard. It was stupid to care, he knew it was stupid. Zemo had told him his plan. But it hurt, more than any of the physical pain. 

They'd never been distant, when they were playing, but there was no tenderness here. It felt good, though, and his body betrayed him before long—he came, a hot flush that was indistinguishable from humiliation running through his body. 

"Pull out," Zemo said, and Bucky did, no hesitation. Steve couldn't help make a noise, deep in his throat—that was all wrong. The whole point of the game was that he was Bucky's to use, and Bucky hadn't come.

"Stand up and turn him over." Bucky did, nudging him with his boot. Steve's eyes were closed. He couldn't bear to open them. 

"Open your eyes, Captain," Zemo said. "Your Bucky could stand to lose one of his own, if you don't." 

Of course, Steve opened them. That's the guy he was, apparently—pathetic to the end. Bucky looked down at him, placid, blank. The gun he had held to his head the whole time was loose in his grip, almost tilted down to his neck. Steve was no danger to anyone, now. 

"We're going to Siberia," Zemo said. "That's where you'll find him, if you still want him. If you don't, you should come anyway. There are other Winter Soldiers there. Imagine what I could do with them all." 

With that and a quick word in Russian, Zemo turned, and Bucky followed him. They left Steve in the dirt.

**Author's Note:**

> Bucky, still under the sway of the trigger-words, is ordered by Zemo to hold a gun to his head. Zemo makes clear that he could order Bucky to kill himself in an instant, if he wanted to, and he uses this to keep Steve under control. Then, Steve is forced to give Bucky a blowjob. Bucky then tells Zemo details about their formerly consensual D/s relationship and Zemo orders him to rape Steve and make him like it. He fucks Steve with no prep. 
> 
> In addition, there is minor knifeplay, beating with closed fists, and one face slap.


End file.
